


Back Room

by Hermit9



Series: Amicus Curiae [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Cas drinking, Dean In Love, Fluff, Hunter Society - Freeform, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Vignette set in the same universe as Harm Principle. Cas and Dean unwind after a hunt, keeping a low profile and waiting out the police presence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the /r/FanFiction daily prompt: **The One Bed Conundrum** – GASP, there’s only one bed. Uncliché the most cliché of all fanfiction premises.

Dean ached. Cas could heal the cuts and bruises and broken ribs, but his grace was cold and Dean ached from things his body still thought it should heal. Rugaru hunts were always a shitshow. In part, because most of them lived long, comfortably adult, lives as normal Joes, which meant they had friends, and neighbors, and coworkers looking out for them. A whole social network on their side. Mostly Rugaru sucked because of the inevitable mess created when they turned. Their first victims tended to be close to them, they died bloody, and the partially chewed body parts attracted Feds like honey attracts flies. 

He and Cas couldn’t afford to be caught by the Feds. It might have been a fun cat and mouse game once, but Leviathan had ruined that a long time ago. So now Baby was back under a tarp in a barn in a field, hopefully not rusting apart. He didn’t like leaving his girl. Not that the waiting part was all that bad. The barn was property of a regular at the hunter’s bar Sam had recommended. Not a hunter himself, but around enough to not ask questions about simple things and not gouge the price either. 

Sam and Dean had avoided hunter spaces for a long time, guided by the principle that Dad always said they were more trouble than they were worth. John also said that “the only good supernatural creature is a dead one” and “no son of mine will be a dick sucking faggot” and... Well. John was wrong about a lot of things. 

The bar itself was comfortable, if not Dean’s first choice. It was styled after an Irish pub, complete with energetic fiddle playing through the speakers. There were hunter signs on the door, discreetly, but most of the customers looked local. Enough that some betting was allowed, as long as there was no fleecing on-going. Hal, the barman and owner, kept a tab on the games and would call things off before anyone got insulted or taken for more than they could afford. Dean had played a couple games of darts with Joakim, another hunter, no money, just unwinding and keeping an eye on Cas. The angel was currently sitting at the bar with three increasingly impaired bikers. 

There had been a tense moment early in the evening when the youngest biker member, ink still healing on his skin and patches so recently sewn the threads were still white, had made a big show of trying to intimidate Cas. Whether he thought he was law enforcement or the kid had a profound hatred of accountants wasn’t clear. Hal and Joakim had swept in to defuse the situation, vouching loudly for Cas and convincing the kid that the “wimpy pencil pusher” could drink him under the table. The other two bikers had seemed amused, but now, well into the second bottle of whiskey, they were starting to regret it. The kid was mostly leaning on the counter drooling, trying to move an arm once or twice to convince himself he was still in the running. From the slight smirk on Cas’ face, he was barely buzzed. The oldest of the trio, a big bear of a man with a bushy beard, looked both impressed and highly entertained. Dean watched as Cas picked up one more shot of whiskey, saluting his remaining two companions before swallowing the amber liquid. If Dean stared a bit too long at the long fingers curved over the glass, or at the way his throat worked as he swallowed… that was a perk of this entire situation, wasn’t it? He was allowed to watch now.

Dean finished the last of his beer, grinning and winking at Joakim before making his way to the bar. He leaned over Cas, dropping a hand into the small of his back, almost intimate through the skin warm fabric of the overcoat, whisper-talking in his ear more for the benefit of the bikers than anything else. 

“Ready to go, honey?”

Cas refilled his glass and the two others’ before shrugging. He gave the shot glass to Dean, turning to face him, with his lack of awareness or care about public spaces and proper display therein. Dean’s breath caught in his throat, as it always did when he looked into Cas’ eyes. He drank the shot, the burn barely noticeable, placing it back down on the bar.

“Of course,” said Cas. He looked at the barman, reaching for his wallet but was interrupted by the bearded biker.

“Nah, we got this, man. You earned it.”

Cas waited a beat for Hal to nod his approval before getting up. He nodded at his drinking companions before looping his arm around Dean’s waist. Dean grabbed a $50 bill from his own wallet and folded it into the wooden box next to the tip jar. It was bolted down and padlocked, covered in hunter’s signs. Hunters were superstitious by trade, it was easy to explain it as a good luck box. It acted as the tip jar that paid for Sam’s services when he was called somewhere - not that the civilians needed to know. Dean’s smile felt like it was splitting his face in half. He still wasn’t used to being allowed to walk this way with Cas, hip to hip and arms around each other. He hoped he’d never get used to it. 

They walked among the cars parked outside until they were sure no one followed them or kept tabs on them. Then they circled the building, neither drunk enough to make noise as they crossed the gravel ground. The kitchen door was unlocked, as Hal had promised. One of the pub’s pantries had been rearranged as a hideaway room. It was cramped, small twin bed with newish sheets, an IV pole stuck in a corner and most of an infirmary on the shelves. The medical equipment was sealed in sterile bags, Dean had noted. Whoever kept this place supplied was well connected. The door had no window. It made the pub operate on limited storage, but it was invaluable for hunters hiding out or injured. 

Neither Dean nor Cas minded the cramped space. It was a good place to wait out the FBI. They’d shared worst.

“Any requests?” Cas asked, sitting perpendicularly on the bed, legs not quite reaching the floor but not missing much.

“I think we were at the rings of Saturn,” answered Dean, stripping out of his jeans and flannels. He crawled on the bed, rolled into himself to fit, with his head on Cas’ lap. He was asleep less than a minute later, breath deep and even. Cas brushed his hand on Dean’s head and joined him in the dreamspace, cradling the bright soul spark as he went to find the most perfect spot to explore Saturn’s rings.


End file.
